


I Saw Sixteen Birds

by ZenzaNightwing



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, I've cannonballed onto a hell train of my own creation, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-07-12 23:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16005611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenzaNightwing/pseuds/ZenzaNightwing
Summary: For a brief, inestimable moment, there is only life.And out comes nine sparrows, nine starlings, nine falcons and wrens.Out come Nine Birds.One orderly flock, the twins, the lover, the protector, the lonely journal-keeper, the peacemaker, the wordless one, the prodigy, and the deathless hunter.(AKA the Time Travel Fic I craved so much I actually made it)





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

The skies don't fall that day, one hundred and eighteen years after they all stood in the IPRE orientation room and missed the heavy weight of destiny creeping down their shoulders.

 

Or rather, they did, but every last person stood up and became Atlas, looked to the darkness come to Consume and said _no._ In the sky above, with lights and bonds shining bright, they refused, in the streets of Neverwinter, with the dead walking among them, they refused, and in every plane and every place, they bloodied the ground with black opal ichor with the crushing weight of every rejection.

 

From within the monster, the Frankenstein of the being clawed at its walls, tore it apart from the inside because he saw happiness for a fleeting moment of time, saw his only singular friend smile even with his own pain, and remembered a time once, before he decided to transcend, that he saw that same smile on a girl that shared his eyes.

 

An unfortunately christened trio fought against the monster they spent a hundred years fleeing from and a decade forgetting. A couple of corpses risen in red kept their hands joined as they called bones and blazes, hell in their smiles. A woman and man who'd spent too long in blue stood on the silver decked masterpiece that had ruled their lives from the day they stepped foot on it and fought with all that they had left.

 

( _You're going to have to fight._ )

 

And in the end, there are three moons in the star-strewn sky, a Song in everyone's hearts and a Story rushing through one collective mind. In then end, the dust settles as dust is wont to do, and people who have fought for the first time in their lives laugh breathlessly.

 

In the end, the sun rises, the cage of the Hunger disappears in its light with the natural moon, leaving the moonbase staring down at the surface, unmoved and unshaken.

 

In the end, people have died, and those who fought beside them for that hopeless, uncountable stretch of time as the very planes were sewn back together by the weight of love bury them, together.

 

And in the end, _they win_.

 

The flawless sapphire grave of a thousand souls glimmers in the sunlight, and the Raven Queen smiles through it as spirits are sorted into paradises and prisons. The stained glass window of a church in Refuge glows like the rainbow, and Istus laughs, because _gods, they were amazing_ , her weaving laying beside her as she marvels over their masterpiece. Pan digs fingertips into the mix of grass and sand by Bottlenose Cove and claims the smoldering embers, footsteps trailing flowers as he steps foot on the material plane for the first time in thirty years.

 

In the end, mortals and gods and those who exist between both distinctions breathe out breathless giggles of relief as the sunrise cements itself as the first of this new era.

 

In the end, they are alive.

 

(In the end, in the end)

 

But it is not _the_ end.

 

-

 

Raven only comes after the deed is done, arriving in a flurry of feathers and a deafening silence.

 

She steps through the hallways, the heels of her boots clicking like snapping teeth against the solid sapphire flooring, moving ever-forward to where twelve wedges meet in the center of the temple. Feathers raise from the neckline of her long, swooping cloak, an artificial headdress that puffs out and around, ruffled just the slightest in indignation as her footsteps quicken.

 

In the mage-lights that line the halls, her skin glows in its darkness, highlighted in places by splashes of bone-white skin, forming what might be a skull and might be a beak on the lower half of her face. Feathery designs splay against her cheekbones in deep black. Loose sleeves cut through the air like her followers' scythes, long skirt trailing out behind her in a bridal train, all in black and white, with the rare slash of gray the same shade as her carefully ordered bun.

 

The central plaza of the temple is high-roofed, stretching up to the skylight above, each pane colored the same as their planar stones. Raven halts the step before her feet encounter the pristine circle of black opal, lip turning up in a snarl to reveal gold-capped canines, sneering down at the reminder of the creature that stole her followers and charges from her in those precious minutes of immortal hell.

 

She curses in Celestial, head whipping around to spot her Nine faithful, whose souls had been tracked to the hub of the room before disappearing into one of the other, harder to read rooms.

 

The soft padding of bare feet stops her, however, and she very slowly turns to the quartz segment of the room, where her closest colleague, her most persistent enemy, her beloved wife, resides.

 

Istus appears, skin inked and painted on so thoroughly that one could hardly tell the borders between being and mural, hair half-tangled and loose from the flyaway braid she typically prefers. Her skirt is asymmetrical, dragging on the ground behind her in the same way as Raven's, the front almost completely open to display the stories on her skin there. Everything she wears is color, are bonds she has carried in her life and ones given to her by her wife that she cherishes deeply and wove into her own outfit.

 

Her technicolor eyes dance, but her hands are twisted nervously in front of her, thumbs rubbing into her palms and fingers tapping together in an uneven beat.

 

“What did you do?” Raven demands, standing directly across from her beloved, poised to cast if need be. Istus giggles, with just enough of that edge of hysteria that Raven sighs, unsummons her cloak and puts her face in one elegant hand.

 

“Well, you see-”

 

“I am fucked. You have fucked me. What did you do with the Nine, darling? Because I can pretty much guarantee from _that_ that I am now short three Reapers and six souls.”

 

Istus pauses, and tilts her head in a jerky, distinctly pigeon-like manner, colors shifting with the movement. “...You're not wrong, per say-”

 

“-I swear to me, Istus, you can't help yourself in my realm can you?” Raven gets into her stride, pacing across her narrow wedge of sapphire, “I said, _Yes, you can take one of mine_ , ten thousand years ago and you've been using it like a buy-one get-as-many-as-you-damn-well-please coupon! I have let you take all your strings, let you get away with some souls stuffed into your trenchcoat, but here is where I draw my line in the temple stone, love.”

 

Istus winces, shifting from one foot to the other, the frantic motion of her hands getting even more anxious as she continues. “They've been dead for a thousand years, my treasure. Kravitz finished his full reaping deal five hundred years ago. He's been working as your murderous intern for the last half-millennium! I thought they deserved- well, it was supposed to be a vacation. A chance to peacefully relive old adventures.”

 

The wording of that stops Raven dead in her tracks. “...My angel, dearest one to my heart, what do you mean by 'supposed to be'? What the eternal _fuck_ have you done?”

 

“They'll be back, give or take a hundred years or so on their side. Don't worry, my love, they probably know what they're doing. Sildar even assisted in the spellwork, I'm sure it's fine.”

 

Raven looks Istus dead in the eye and recites her next words like they're a well-practiced poem she's been forced to give to many grieving families, “I'm sorry, Sildar “Barold Jeremiah Bluejeans” Hallwinter cannot be held accountable for the inestimable amount of property damage inflicted on your place of residence in the hunt for whatever stupidity he incurred while looking for not even me knows what. We apologize for the apocalypse-style catastrophe you were forced to deal with for this honestly minor inconvenience on our side.” Raven stares Istus down into her realm for a few seconds, voice breaking on several syllables in her next heartbroken plea, “So please, for the love of everything ethereal and eternal, tell me you did not let that embodiment of catastrophe help you with any part of the spell you've just apparently fucked up.”

 

“...I forgot I had to draft you an entire speech for that.”

 

“Me damn you.”

 

-

 

Light spins, darkness folds. Astral and ethereal, folding together into celestial expressions of thought and magic. Aspects crashing together in destructive harmony, steam hissing into the wind, caught beneath mountains.

 

Primal materials, mixed together with shadows and gods and elements.

 

And from a far off Yggdrasil, Nine Birds take flight to the double rooted place they begin.

 

-

 

There is a little town named Phandalin.

 

It's a mining town, it's not particularly large, its main attraction is probably the well at the center with an accidental splash of paint on one of the stones that looks remarkably like a bluejay. It doesn't really have much going for it, not at the moment.

 

For you see, the most monumental thing the village ever did was reunite the dreaded trio of the Tres Horny Boys.

 

(The last job you'll ever have to take), my ass.

 

The second most monumental thing the little town of Phandalin ever did was die.

 

It vanished in a puff of smoke, a haze of flame, and a (perfect circle of black glass).

 

One could argue it would be its most monumental act to end, to be that catalyst in its destruction, but that ship sailed long ago, destiny come together to push the three heroes of a century together again, to guide them back to their now older sister.

 

The third most monumental thing the corpse of Phandalin ever did was become the final necessary ingredient to break the planes from their bonds and return them back together.

 

Hands painted in chipped nail polish slamming down against a hard surface, summoning Death from the smooth mirror of a mile, (something starting to take shape).

 

Realities broke apart, in that moment, separated unquestionably and then came back together at the hands of one alone, planes broken then stitched back together in one instant by a scorned man, as he stared down hell again and laughed with the brightness of all the stars he'd ever seen.

 

There were things one could never expect from the beginning of their lives, from the first time a spark of power left the ends of fingertips in unison, from two street rats living like feral beings, only saved from true squalor by the extent of their lives and the determination in their skins, to the end of all time, side by side, as they became the closest things to gods any mortals have achieved.

 

But, as the story finds itself getting too lost in its details, we must return to the base details.

 

There is a little town named Phandalin.

 

(There once was a little town named Phandalin)

 

(What do you want to call this, papa?)

 

There is a pair of well-worn boots, far older than mere appearance would suggest, thumping against the path unevenly and painfully. Creases by iridescent eyes are etched deep with worry, stiff hands worrying at the air for an invisible weight, a shawl wrapped around lightly trembling shoulders, a dark brown that doesn't offset the richness of the garment.

 

There is a traveler on the path through the woods, one that (has two dead horses lying on the side) is lined with trees and brush, blossoms beginning to peek through the green as the heavy morning fog twists its way in an indecisive dance of its own inevitable immolation.

 

(There are flocks of those who survived the Day come to a temple made on the ocean-surface of glass.)

 

(There were seven travelers, and they have all died and lived and felt more pain from the latter.)

 

There is moisture on cheeks, part fog, part sadness, part relief. There is an endless stream of thought, a bubbling brook of _I found them they're all here, gods, gods gods, they're all still alive_. There is the cold dread of realization, fingers knotting desperately in the ruddy auburn of the homespun sleeves that are too close to an old garment, and the heavy weight of resolution.

 

There is a woman walking the path back from a soon-to-be hell.

 

(There is a wagon rolling down the path, _I'm practicing my cantrips!_ )

 

(There are the first hesitant steps onto a silver deck.)

 

The little town(grave/settlement) of Phandalin disappears in the distance and plans begin forming in a quicksilver mind, hands itching for ink and quill and an ivory staff.

 

And on the other edge of the town, reality splits.

 

It's not a long-lasting rend, it would barely register for anyone glancing over, and for someone not hyper-attuned to the fabric of the world, they wouldn't even be aware of it ever occurring.

 

For a woman that's lived a thousand deaths over the course of her hour-long life, for the gods sitting in their plane, for a painfully lonely jellyfish that eats and consumes but never lets anything escape, it is a world in a moment, an eye blinking open and staring back at them for a long eternity, showing the stars inside.

 

For a brief, inestimable moment, there is only life.

 

And out comes nine sparrows, nine starlings, nine falcons and wrens.

 

Out come Nine Birds.

 

One orderly flock, the twins, the lover, the protector, the lonely journal-keeper, the peacemaker, the wordless one, the prodigy, and the deathless hunter.

 

Unfortunately, these are not birds that know how to fly, at least not _well_. The two that try are immediately knocked down by the rest of the wingless ones, trapped under the mass with a decidedly unhappy squeaking noise.

 

The rift mends with the quick, deft motions of the last to fall into the plane, stitched back together with precise hands that regained dexterity they lost when they lost twenty years of life to two smiling siblings that made her stomach twist in familiarity-

 

The rift mends.

 

And from deep within the pile, there comes a loud, sharp voice.

 

“Holy fuck! I forgot how weird heartbeats were!” Without a motion necessary from the caster, the disoriented pile lifts out and form a seven pointed star around two prone central figures. “Next time you say 'let's go save another world, motherfuckers' specify that Barry _leave us undead_ 'cuz ya boy is not loving the whole bodily functions shiz.”

 

The other in the center, shifting sapphire rimmed glasses unbothered by the fall or subsequent crushing, only laughs in response, slightly strained as his hands scrabble along the ground for something. “I really don't think it was optional. I don't want to be hunted down by Dad while we have to hunt our own prey, FathSir.” His fingers find his focus on the ground next to him, and he relaxes, perfectly content to be left on the ground to recover from the sudden experience of being alive again.

 

“Also!” another voice interjects, eerily similar to the first, their figure rising up from the ground perfectly straight, using their heels as their only point of contact until they reach the top and dig bare toes into the dew-covered grass, “I don't want to be vored by my own umbrella again! Fuck that, Lup's good out here with her _hot bod still intact_.”

 

“Has anyone actually checked to see if the spell worked?” A voice that could only be portrayed by a put-upon Fantasy Best Buy employee asked, belonging to a man that could also only be characterized with the previous descriptor, with some added necromancy.

 

A big beefy man beef clambered up with surprising grace, sprinting up the slight hill before the town would be revealed, either in its desolation, its inferno, or its wholeness.

 

The streets aren't full, per say, the weather not exactly ideal for the setting up of a marketplace, gray clouds above threatening rain, but there are a few figures rushing around in the shadows, hurrying to get what they need and run their required errands before the sky opens up and the downpour begins.

 

Most importantly, there are not marble and earth walls stretching upward. There is not an empty field. There is not a mile-wide circle of glass, burning everything except the deep channel of the central well.

 

Most importantly, Phandalin is _alive_ , and the sky is not struck through with darkness and blooming, horrible color.

 

Beside him, seemingly appearing out of nothing, a man with dark dreadlocks sighs with a half-pained groaning sound to end it. “I cannot believe we just conned my boss's wife to fulfill our no consequence power fantasy.” His impressive eyebrows furrow, and a nervously agonized, conflicted look comes over his face, “Less that I can't personally believe we wound up trying it but more that we actually pulled it off? We're stupid enough that I'm surprised we never attempted it, but we're also dumb enough that this _should have never worked_. I really should feel worse about this than I do.”

 

One of the four seemingly content to stay on the ground where he is and not join the others in the wild clamber up the hill to witness this miracle they've accomplished laughs, half hysterically. “We conned a goddess! Who are you kidding, arm-stealer, I'm feeling pretty damn great!”

 

“Well, uh. He does have a point.” The Fantasy Best Buy employee says, nervously adjusting his glasses as he heads up the hill to see the proof that the town that began the true ending is still living. “Our track record for actually accomplishing anything with this rate of success is... nonexistent. Frankly, we suck, and I cannot believe I pulled this level of fuckery off.”

 

Lup plasters herself to his side, as in literally casts a spell to stick herself to his right arm, and tilts her head under his chin. “Babe, I have always, forever and every single day, believed in you.”

 

The face and expression she gets in return from the man she is currently halfway piggybacking up a hill could only be described as skepticism.jpg.

 

Not... Everyone is nearly as calm as them.

 

A gnome, tail flicking across the ground unsteadily, tasting the dirt and marveling in glorious sensation, stares up with wide eyes at the overcast sky, the silhouette of a fake moon just barely showing through the heavy clouds, swaying on his feet. His fingers knot in the patches of royal blue fabric over the worn elbows of his red jacket, nails digging into the thick material as a messy, relieved sob erupts from his throat.

 

Everyone still on the ground sits up in alarm, and the ones on the hill spin back around to make sure that their Captain is alright. A human woman is the one to reach him first, the others still paralyzed with the concept of having to deal with actual emotions. She scrambles to her knees and skids over as quickly as she can, hair summer silver, face unwrinkled except for her laugh lines, eyes wide and hands clutching at his upper arms, looking him in the eye with an anxious press of her lips.

 

“We're _back_ , Lucretia.” the gnome speaks thickly, leaning just slightly forward into her arms. “We're _back_.”

 

Lucretia tugs him down into an embrace, tucking her chin into his birds nest hair, slowly shifting into a half-collapsed sprawl of legs. She nods into the top of his skull, humming an affirmative simultaneously, “Yes, Captain. We're back home. You can still remember everything, you won't be erased again, I _promise you_.” Her fingers trace words on the back of his jacket, little phrases that the Voidfish would have translated into incomprehensible static if he wasn't inoculated.

 

“Luce...” Taako breathes, staring with some kind of amazed fascination at her newly de-aged face. Her ghostly form had kept her older state, the same way that Magnus' had in the end, the damage from Wonderland showing in spirit even if his body had been replaced. Her hair had always been silver, gaining streaks of white after Wonderland and getting paler and ivory as she worked herself to the bone building the world back up and making it better.

 

Now, it was glossy and glittering in her high updo, steel and opal running in thick threads together, less of a vein in marble, and more molten mercury and light. Her features were sun-bright and smooth, kaleidescope eyes jaded with age but no longer highlighted by deep bags.

 

She glances up, face contorting and one finger rising in a shushing gesture before she registers the look of wonder breaking into happiness adorning his unglamoured features. The finger instead rises to prod at her unlined skin, pressing against the hair at her temples, much thicker than it was after she saved the world. Her face falls into an open jawed expression of shock, but she doesn't sit back and remove her hands from her Captain to take in her new appearance, and only leans further into his form with all of her joy-regret translating into the fullness of her embrace.

 

“W _eee_ eeel...” Lup drawls, ears pressed back defensively even though her posture is cocky and open, betraying her entire lack of knowledge as to what the hell she's supposed to be doing now that sappy emotions are at play. “Uh, what was the plan when we worked this out?”

 

The central figure with glasses clambers up to a lanky height of 6'2, digging his focus into the slightly muddy ground as leverage as his body readjusts to being a body. “We di- well, we didn't really have much of a plan? I believe it was 'kick ass, take names' because we didn't think this would actually happen.” He adjusts his glasses, fingers tapping the imbedded dark amethyst beads and jade leaves on the sides of his focus. “I believe our best course of action would be to locate and retrieve the Relics safely so Aunt Madame Director can recast the shield.”

 

The bearlike man raises his hand like he's waiting to be called on, then abruptly puts it down and just yells, “I vote we _don't_ kill Phandalin this time.”

 

Taako sidles over to him and lays one hand on his shoulder, “My dude. My guy. My man. Buddy, pal, buckaroo, I don't think any of us are going to say nay to that _nasty_ proposition.”

 

“Less death is great.” The wooden-armed grandpa with grass in his hair that looks _very_ happy to be there says, “In general and specifically the place my fake cousin blew up with the Fucky Glove.”

 

Kravitz pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “Please do not call the significantly deadly and town-destroying artifact made from the power of Creation itself the 'Fucky Glove'. Just on principle, please don't.”

 

“To be fair, I forgot what it was called.” Merle ripostes.

 

Barry tilts his head down to rest on Lup's collar, sighing into her shoulder, “I'm so tired Lup. Please, for the love of our boss, get him to stop.”

 

“Babe, I have two methods for getting things to stop, one involves my scythe, and the other one involves everything within twenty feet of me spontaneously combusting. I won't say I'm not down to clown and kill a man, but you do need to think on who you're asking to prevent some shit going down.”

 

“Sirs. I am _loving_ these goofs but can we please get back to whatever sad pieces of a plan we have?” Angus clasps his hands together, fingers knitting as he points them in the general direction of all of the significantly older and near infinitely more incompetent adults.

 

“I'm going to punch myself.”

 

The seven wheel around to look at Lucretia where she still sits, Davenport turned around to face the rest of them, with Lucretia hugging his shoulders protectively. Davenport sighs and tilts his neck back as far as he comfortably can, the panic largely receded in his voice when he says, “Lucretia, don't be rash.”

 

Lucretia looks down at him and raises one eyebrow perfectly in a way that no other crew member can perfectly replicate. “Captain, with all due respect, I am currently _very_ pissed off at myself, and I now have the physical form to actually do something. I am most definitely going to punch myself, and there is nothing short of Jeffandrew that could even attempt to stop me.” She lifts her head solemnly and somehow maintains eye contact with all seven of them simultaneous, “You could sooner divert a river from its course than deny my nature.”

 

Kravitz sighs again, and in the distance a flock of ravens take off with the weight of it. “So,” he says, short and clipped like he just wants the words out of his mouth so he can stop thinking about them, “Our current plan is Step One: don't kill everyone while getting the Relics, Step Two: let Lucretia punch Lucretia, Step Three: to be decided, Step Four: kill John again, profit. Let me just say, this is a horrible plan and I hate it, when do we start?”

 

-

 

There is/was/ will be a little town named Phandalin.

 

There are Seven/Nine/Sixteen Birds.

 

-

 

Above, the skies break open and a storm descends.

 

The rain comes down in heavy sheets outside a tavern where a man named B- Sil- Barry Bluejeans is counting out the last of the money he got for a recent job.

 

It makes the roads muddy, taking away the footprints of three travelers on separate paths, dirtying two pairs of well worn traveling boots, one with little flowers badly embroidered on the ankle, and staying mysteriously away from a pair of adventuring heels.

 

On the moon, Davenport watches the Director step out of her pod, a tearful smile that she could always claim as rain dominating her face, already back in her work clothes. Davenport can't help but feel strange, looking at her in dark blue, like somethin- His name is Davenport! And what a good name Davenport is to have.

 

And below, the drumming of the drops barely reaches a red robed skeleton and her umbrella.

 

Welcome To The Adventure Zone.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Madame Director's been quiet recently.

 

Well- she's always quiet- she never really talks to him? But her silence still echoes through the hallways.

 

It's been a hot second since anyone has actually bothered to make conversation with their local arcana expert, actually, but he's fine with that. He knows he's not exactly the most thrilling conversationalist, or just- the easiest to understand in general.

 

His hands go from where they fiddle with the lace ends of his cloak, diving into his pockets and bringing out the rings he's kept meticulous maintenance of.

 

He was warned when he came up here, that there was the possibility of him never making it out. If that was the case, then he would be... obliterated. Erased. The Voidfish that Johann takes such good care of swallowing his life whole and taking him from the world itself.

 

Both him and Aen, his fiance had made wedding rings for each other the day before he was scheduled to leave for his new, lucrative, potentially deadly job offer alone. Neither of them could bring it within themselves to toss either set, so here he is on the moon, already feeling like a widower with two rings. He's sure it must be a much more ominous sensation for Aen, back planetside.

 

Aen is the only one he can only ever smoothly talk to, most of the time. When he's calm, he stutters confidently over every heavily accented word, when he's angry, they come out in a rush of choked foreign syllables- but whenever he stumbled and tripped over his words, or said them in the entirely wrong language, there would just be a gentle tap to his open palm and he'd take a second to reorient his words before finally coming up with the right ones to force out.

 

He has only found one instance in which his stuttering disappears completely, only leaving behind the thick accent and nothing else.

 

Complete and total fear.

 

It's kind of ironic that he specializes in the things that make most people wildly stutter in return, but leave his voice smooth and untroubled, unshaken and perfect. He sometimes uses his magic on just himself, just to stabilize his voice and make good first impression. That's typically followed up with a quick breakdown in the nearest confined place as he comes off of his high, but he can live with it.

 

He can live with it until he gets the money from the organization, until he gets the stupid bracer off of his arm, until he can go back home and not worry about casting Cause Fear on himself any time he has to converse with anyone on this damn moonbase.

 

He can live with that, right?

 

It's for Aen. Always for Aen.

 

Anansi, it's lonely up here.

 

"-an? You in there?"

 

He whips his head around toward the door, hands frantically tying his hair back and under the binding, sending a quick prayer to his deity for the forewarning before sighing and wasting a spell slot to work himself up into a proper, stutter-controlling panic.

 

"Yeeesss?~" He says, opening the door halfway and poking his now covered head out, the hidden hand frantically scrubbing over the lace edges of his clothing.

 

Killian stands outside, leaning against the wall a bit, one hand raised to knock again, the other stuffed in the pockets of her pants. She's dressed casually, which means they aren't being called out to take down any more rogue reclaimers. For a second, he's relieved, and then petrified by an entirely different fear.

 

Oh, no. Oh nonono.

 

Is this what a social call looks like? is he supposed to just step out there and keep flubbing all of his wisdom checks until he gets so afraid of his own skin he has to sit rocking in the bathroom for another few hours?

 

He almost slams the door right then and there, but Killian gives an awkward wave and, although she looks _much_ less anxious and uncomfortable than him, she is also a Bureau Certified Badass™ and not currently under a magic spell of consistent anxiety, so the fact that she is expressing it at all convinces him just slightly that maybe, just maybe, she is also not on board with socializing currently.

 

 _Thank Anansi_.

 

"Sorry to bother you this late, but Madame Director wants to see you."

 

The internal oven timer dings within, giving him ample time to temporarily work himself into a sight hysteria to give himself the disadvantage of the wisdom check. Unfortunately, he doesn't particularly feel like coming down from that anxiety high right now, given that he's being _told to see the Madame Director._

 

"Riiiight... Waeeeell, I'll just... see mysaelf zere. 'Zank you for your consideration."

 

Killian leaves and leaves him to have a mild breakdown before grabbing his main staff from the side of the doorframe and making his way carefully through the hallways.

 

Three things make him reliably afraid in order from least terrifying to 'my pants are on the other side of Faerun, that's how hard I shit them': His own creations, Cause Fear, and Madame Director.

 

He met her in a tavern somewhere a little north of Neverwinter, a place still sunny enough to make him squint, even with his shades. He was job hunting in the general area around Neverwinter, trying to find something to make up the last twenty gold they needed to get rations for the summer, when their fans stop working right because the landlord can't afford to keep them going properly and all of his energy goes toward casting all of the Rays of Frost he can stomach.

 

She had slid into his booth, her eyes naming her unspeakably old, more so than the wrinkles around them, hair silver and pinned back with a brooch that could be worth what he needed to split the difference. There was a flash of pain in her features when she took in his, but he didn't capitalize on that and instead tilted his glasses down and raised one eyebrow in what he could only hope was a vaguely intimidating manner.

 

Look, he's not a very sociable wizard assassin. He's just a very well-practiced one.

 

In response, she raised an eyebrow in return, and in that moment he was filled with the fear of god.

 

"'Vat can I do vor you?"

 

The accent seemed to unbalance her for a second. He will admit, not many elves speak with the cadence he has. It's unusual that it doesn't seem to surprise her, but more startle. He is intimately aware in the differences between the two types of fear. The first meant foreign, she wouldn't know the accent and she'd be surprised to hear it coming from anyone. The second meant familiar, he reminded her of someone she must have known once.

 

Her throat cleared before he could try to dissect her fear any more. "I find myself and my organization in need of an expert of your caliber." Her nails clack a slightly menacing rhythm against the sparsely lacquered wood of the table, "I have heard you are an expert at emotion-oriented assassination. The removal of targets and the calming of collateral."

 

He giggled nervously at that, which served to have her flinch again and bear down with an even more intimidating glare. "Ahhh~, I zee my reputation has proceeded me!"

 

"Yes. Yes it has." Here, she stood up a bit from her seat and loomed over him, eyes glowing like a rainbow after a hurricane, beautiful and blessed over the utter carnage beneath. "I would like to hire you. Would you care to take the business talk to my magical hot air balloon?"

 

And, after her midair business pitch, it wasn't like he could say no.

 

So here he is now, hair wrapped up in a tight betrothal arrangement, two rings slipped onto his ring fingers, rubbing obsessively over the lace, feet making a death knell against the deserted quad sidewalks of the moonbase.

 

Madame Director's dome has a large set of double doors installed, curled with countless designs of animals: jellyfish, ducks, bears, owls, two strange fanged weasels curled around each other. He was a bit sad to find no spiders in the strange menagerie on the door, but that was alright with him. He just doesn't want to be obliterated by the Director the second he steps into her office.

 

The doors swing open easily under his touch, and he fails his wisdom check again for the ninth time, stepping through with a fresh wave of magically induced, honestly mostly unnecessary at this point, panic.

 

Madame Director stands in front her desk, mirroring the large portrait behind her with a stone-faced expression of determination. As he steps in, alone, not followed by any of his companions, Madame Director closes her eyes and seems to beseech a god that doesn't answer.

 

"...I half hoped you wouldn't show." She says softly, hands closing in an iron grip over her silver sheathed staff. Very slowly, leaning on her staff, she sits where she stood, legs dangling over the steps up to her desk. "Before I ask of you what I have to- would you allow me to tell you a story?"

 

He freezes where he stands, and the doors close behind him eerily. He realizes with a dawning sense of fear that Davenport isn't here. They are well and truly alone. "...I don't zee vy not!"

 

Madame Director nods, and smiles with an edge of pain, "Thank you. I... well, I was part of a- a group. We were together for-" Her voice gets a little choked up, and for a second he imagines the ghost of static in her breath, "For a year. But it felt like... like an eternity. Like a-" another staticky noise, leaving him frozen to floor with fear.

 

"And then I made a call. I made a call and I destroyed what I had. I lost one forever, I misplaced another, and I fear that I will never regain another fully." Her eyes close and her head bows, hands wringing at the silver aura surrounding the white material of her staff. "But I found three of them and- and maybe I can't save them all. Maybe they won't see me like they used to, but I need to do this. I need this."

 

One hand raises from the staff to scrub at her face in irritation, her shoulders bunching together into one contained mass of tension. "I'm so sorry. You don't deserve this, none of them deserve this, but I _have_ to do this. For everyone." She meets his eyes full on while he stands, still frozen at the entryway, "I won't give you any platitudes. This is going to suck some serious ass, and there is nothing I can say that will make this any more palatable than this is. You have always reminded me of... two people of the people I once knew. Two who I considered to be family. I am _so sorry_ it is coming down to this but there are no excuses I can make."

 

She rises in one smooth motion and stalks over, long dress trailing behind her and hands holding onto her staff like it's a bludgeon not a focus, an aggressiveness to her gait that speaks as if she learned it from someone much bigger and aggressive than herself.

 

He finally regains the control of his body, beating her intimidation check and his own self-imposed wisdom check, stumbling back, tugging at the door handles in futile effort. The domes are soundproof. He knows that no one will hear him scream in here.

 

Madame Director slams the butt of her staff into the floor and he falls to the ground from the resulting shockwave, scrambling to his back to stare up at her, haloed in starlight, all iron and steel and stone as she unravels the silver webbing from around the ivory staff.

 

He glimpses the pure ivory through the spidery nets of metallic colors and for a second, he is...

 

 _Enthralled_.

 

By the color, by the texture, by the similarity to the weapon of choice of his weapon of choice.

 

It is mesmerizing.

 

"I am so sorry, Brian."

 

Darkness.

 

And from the darkness?

 

_Flame._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's now featuring vividly in this imagined universe of mine?
> 
> Turns out I have more feelings for the Taako-adjacent spider boy than I first assumed.


	3. Chapter 3

“Fuck!”

 

Lup's sudden exclamation rings through the trees with a bright edge of forced optimism that immediately puts everyone's hairs on end. Everyone knows that when the Taaco twins get that high, sweet edge to their tone, something is about to get murdered brutally and creatively.

 

“Hey, babes?” she says, still in that sugar sweet tone, “any of you thugs want to go get other me out of my umbrella or am I the only one who just remembered current me is in a place worse than _literal hell_.”

 

“Fuck!” Taako yells, in the exact same cadence.

 

Barry winces with the half of his face not facing the twins, “Uh, I didn't forget, I just thought we were doing other things first?”

 

Lup presses her hands and lips together, white knuckled and white lipped, staring her husband down into hell. “Babe. I love you, but you need to remember to tell me the things I am not screaming about at the top of my lungs. I can guarantee you if I have not shrieked about a thing in the past hour, I have forgotten it _completely_.”

 

Davenport sighs, rubbing a hand over his face and smacking it on his forehead a couple times for good measure. “This was the worst plan we have ever made. Why didn't we- fuck it, I'm not even going to ask that question. Kicking some evil lich ass is top priority, but getting you out of that umbrella is also pretty high on the list.”

 

“I hate to say it, sirs and madams, but we might have to split the party.”

 

They turn to look at Angus, look at each other, then shrug. “What's the worst that could happen?” Magnus decides, “We die here, we just get booted back to our original planes, right? Worst that happens is we all die again and have to face off against Bird Mama!”

 

“I'mma be real with you chief,” Taako cuts in, hands clasped together, fingertips pointed straight at Magnus, “That's kinda what I really _really_ don't want to be doing. We're alive again, bitches! Let's go steal some shit! Burn some shit! Eat some shi- wait no, not that. We've got time. We go get Lup, _then_ we kill some liches!”

 

“We're splitting the party,” Angus repeats, much more firmly, with the edge of an order that being the second Director of the Bureau of Balance affords him, “Dad, Davenport, and I will go back and get Lup out. The rest of you take on Edward and Lydia. There is no discussion on this from anyone. We need Barry and Lup in Wonderland to pull this plan off, and I am not leaving my aunt in an umbrella. Are we clear?”

 

“Crystal, baby.”

 

Angus, Kravitz, and Davenport gather up their things from around the fire, stuffing them into their packs, Kravitz giving Taako a kiss on the cheek. “We'll meet you in Wonderland by next week. Do try to make sure that it isn't still being run by those two shitheels.”

 

“Love you too, boneboy. Go get my sister.”

 

They disappear in a flurry of ravens – simple enough, with only three travelers to worry about keeping aloft – toward the two rising moons.

 

-

 

Wave Echo Cave has few inhabitants. It's not a particularly dangerous mine, despite rumors, but that may just be because of some judiciously applied Invisibility spells and the fact that one of the travelers passing through carries the favor of the Raven Queen blatantly enough that any creatures with a form of a brain know to avoid him.

 

Regardless, they are quiet as they slip through the cavern, avoiding the slight puffs of toxin that come from the mushrooms at their footsteps, avoiding the slimes hidden in the ceiling, and making their way past mining equipment and a chasm in the floor. There is a sense of dread from the three of them as they pause outside the vault, with bloody handprints staining the surface of the door.

 

None are indistinguishable from any other, all dried and caked and cracked, but somewhere in the mosaic of lifeblood, there is the last drops that Cyrus Rockseeker ever shed, the blood of the man that stole so much from them all in one last, greed-fueled, fatal decision.

 

Lup's skeleton is crumpled on the floor, back slumped against the wall, neck craned downward with empty eye sockets staring determinedly at where the golden wedding band on her left hand. Her right is still clenched tightly around the Umbra Staff, not even death permitting her to let go, tucked into her robe as if to hide it from the world, to hide herself from the world in perpetual darkness for one long decade.

 

A sad sound punches out of the three of them and Angus rushes ahead, hand stretched out to grab the umbrella, prepared to snap it and-

 

And he stops.

 

He thinks. Angus is always thinking of course, but this is a special kind of thought, so deep and deliberate and multi-layered that for a second his eyes fog over as every last shred of his concentration is devoted to thinking, not leaving anything for the senses, hardly any left for breathing. It's a rare kind of thought, so rare in fact, that Kravitz can count the number of times he has seen it on both hands with some fingers left over. The kind of thought that Davenport witnessed Lucretia have the day before she locked herself in her room and began the meticulous process of redacting the necessary information from her journals.

 

From his bag, he pulls out a small pot of gold paint and a brush and begins to paint runes, unactivated, onto the handle of the umbrella, careful not to jostle it. Meticulous work, exuding a singular focus that keeps the other two visitors to the cave from interrupting.

 

Designs cross over the base, twining in a spiral, sharp and angular lines mix in with carefully copied sigils. Angus sits back on his heels and stores his paints back into his bag, rolling back his shoulders as if in preparation for something.

 

“Dad, can I ask you a favor?”

 

-

 

For you see, there is a lot of thought that goes into every decision. Both human and not. Does it take a thought for a tree to sway in the breeze, or the break under the pressure? Does it take a thought for a rock to be launched into the air by sheer coincidence and kill a man? Not from the objects used to do it. There is no more blame that must be assigned to rock and there is to a kitchen knife one man uses to kill another. But there is thought, and the thought is of the gods.

 

The gods are fickle creatures, always bending this way and that, benevolent and kind and then destructive and vicious, through no fault of their followers, through no fault of the rocks they throw. In the same way someone blinded by rage may use whatever object is the nearest to kill with, when gods decide they want to make something hurt, they don't often plan.

 

Gods do not think the way Angus McDonald, hundreds of years old and hundreds of years dead, yet living again, did in the entrance to the Rockseeker vault. When they decide to throw a wrench into anyone's plans, they pick whatever's closest and begin lobbing, not particularly caring if they hit something, just wanting to see the water ripple.

 

There will always be thought in coincidence. It is called divine stupidity.

 

There is only one way to protect oneself from divine stupidity, and that is showing up armed with a bazooka to take down the thrown rock. You cannot argue against it, you cannot persuade or convince it from existence, you must use brute force and break it yourself.

 

Angus McDonald was intimately familiar with divine stupidity- and human stupidity, as well, as related and similar as they tend to be. Angus McDonald continues to be incredibly familiar with it.

 

And Angus McDonald has heard stories, from his Father, from his aunt with a lonely flame burning in her core. He knows how much divine stupidity was thrown the way of the boys. He knows that sometimes, in some places, the only reason Taako survived was his sister, almost completely drained of her power, desperately casting from within her fabric prison.

 

They are changing what they can as subtly as possible, all things considered. It's much easier to figure out what to do next when your own timeline matches the one you are trying to fix as close as possible. It's impossible for one of them – all familiar faces or divine energy to stick close by and watch over their past selves, protect them. It would change too much, as well. What would happen as soon as they saved their past selves? Too many variables to count.

 

Lup has to leave the umbrella, has to go free and be allowed to express herself.

 

But Taako needs someone in the umbrella, to protect him when he cannot, his memory shot through with holes and missing the key pieces of himself he needs to destroy his opponents.

 

The umbrella must be emptied, but the umbrella must be filled. How to solve such an impossible riddle?

 

Be a wizard with a sixth level spell slot or two and the brain of Angus McDonald, that's how.

 

-

 

“Oh- before I forget. There will be a wizard called Magic Brian, he's going to be enthralled by a relic, but he's a perfectly good drow when not under a megalomania effect. Let the family fight it out, it's good practice for them, and nothing much should be different from last time. When Brian falls down the pit, though, that's when Uncle Davenport will need to do some good illusory magic,” Angus finishes, as he runs his fingers over his runes one last time, checking and ensuring.

 

“Are you- are you absolutely sure we should do this?” Kravitz asks, hands worrying over his wedding band.

 

“Oh, absolutely not,” Angus reassures, “but we have to.”

 

The Pocket Prohibition Cellar™ rolls softly in his hand, a metal cube small as a knuckle, only growing when needed to fit something inside at the direction of the owner or an owner-designated moderator. It even has a loop in the side, to thread a chain through so one can wear it around their neck or sling it over their rearview mirror to be an asshole. In this case, it is threaded through with a filament of metal enchanted to latch onto whatever it is wrapped around in a nigh-unbreakable seal.

 

“Good luck, kid,” Davenport says softly, stepping back from where all three of them are crowded around the umbrella to give Angus room to lie down.

 

The runes on the handle of the umbrella flare sun-bright, as Angus takes a deep breath in, exhales- and goes limp.

 

Carefully, they open up the Cellar™ and place Angus inside, shrinking it back to its smallest size and attaching it fully to the handle of the umbrella. Then they sit back and wait.

 

And wait.

 

“You know, I saw Taako use that spell once. He managed to keep Magnus from getting dragged into the Astral Plane – which is good, because that was when the Hunger was in full swing.” Kravitz sighs fondly at the memory, then looks worriedly to the umbrella. “Maybe we should-”

 

His words are cut off by a violent flare of supernova light, haloed with red, as the phantasmal, resplendent, cloaked figure of his sister in law is spit out violently from the umbrella.

 

She looks up, cloak wild, glowing, projected skin fizzling out in some places as she regains control of her projection. “Davenport?” She mutters, then scans over Kravitz, narrowing her eyes, “Who the hell are you?”

 

Kravitz clears his throat, automatically adopting his stance as a reaper, and says, “You aren't going to believe this shit. I'm technically your brother in law, but time travel happened so technically not- yet.”

 

Lup takes this in, savors it, considers it, and decides to pick her most dignified dialogue option.

 

“The fuck?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angus followed in his dad's footsteps and used Magic Jar on the umbrella. The Pocket Prohibition Cellar is to make sure he doesn't get obliterated thanks to that whole 100ft rule. I love my good good magic boy but I also have plans. Plans that make no sense and will undoubtedly be shoved out of a moving train harder than Jenkins.
> 
> Listening to the soundtrack and watching some good animatics got me back into the mood to write this, but god knows how long it'll be until the next update.


	4. Chapter 4

The Felicity Wilds are thick and plentiful, giving the six travelers making their way through ample time to work out how to properly move in their bodies. They move together, unafraid of anything that may live in the feral trees. They have all killed worse, individually, and as one they have destroyed something much more dangerous than any hydra or chimaera lurking to kill.

 

Life stretches in bright, almost visible bonds between them, their casual closeness, their bright, happy conversation that flows and ebbs smoothly, a bond of familiarity allowing comforting silence. There is nothing between them that signals discomfort, only the novel sensation of rediscovering physicality. Only touch and brightness and love.

 

Nothing befalls them as they trip over roots and sidle between gaps in the trees, heading unerringly for the clearing they all know contains something worse than the forest around them. Countless charmed pathways leading to the central hub of hell. Of Wonderland.

 

The trees thicken, warning them away, signalling that they should take one of the paths, speaking with the wind through their leaves to run the other way and escape before it is too late. It is all a trick, of course, enchanted trees set up as a cursory measure by the Lich Twins to ensure the wards on the paths would be tripped, allowing an early warning system for the Twins in the form of the bill boards and a magical sensor.

 

Of course, trees hardly matter much when 5 out of 6 of your party are wizards with a frankly horrifying array of spells. Also when one of them is horny enough for plants to make even the ones enchanted by abominations of mortality want to either split and run before Fantasy Viagra Grandpa ™ can even approach them, or get interested enough for the others to slip past and run for the hills while something indescribable occurs behind them.

 

To be honest, the sight of Wonderland in all of its nauseating swirl of lights and clash of color is preferable to the audiovisual experience of Merle Hitower Highchurch starting to flirt with a Neutral Evil pine tree. Lup looks about one more distant, disturbing word from Merle to just burning the whole damn place down, but luckily enough Lucretia has some bard levels from when she took a few cycles to be a slam poet, so the Silence spell stays in effect until Merle  _ goddamn  _ Highchurch comes strolling out of the now thinner tree coverage, disturbingly happy with himself.

 

“Plantfucker,” Taako whispers, teasingly, with just that edge of a weedling whine.

 

“Loud and proud, baby,” Merle whisper yells, as they follow Barry single-file, wielding as many Detect Magics as they can bear.

 

“Given the legal opportunity, I will kill you.”

 

“Come at me, Luce.”

 

“Oh believe me, your bible is going so far up your ass you won’t be able to-”

 

“Guys,” Barry says steadily, changing their course very stealthily to avoid the pressure plate glitter cannons imbedded in the ground like landmines, “If you don’t shut up, we’re heading back home a lot quicker than any of us planned. I’d prefer if the four very squishy members of this party didn’t get yeeted aggressively back to Bird Mama while Lup and I have to carry this team, but I will do it myself if I have to, you motherfuckers. Take a microsecond to chill, aight?”

 

This part of the journey is deeply disturbing for all of them - Taako, Magnus, and Merle as the second group to run the gauntlet for the Relic, Lucretia as the first, all of them losing so much. Lup, stuck in her own umbrella, forced to witness her brother get so close to dying against the power of her husband’s relic, against their mirror images voguing across the room to send her family to hell. It’s the worst for Barry, knowing that all of them have been hurt by the relic he made, the relic he entrusted to three elf triplets with bright smiles, been hurt by his own hubris.

 

His sins are close at hand. It is only natural that he be tense.

 

Finally, they reach one of the black sides of the roulette wheel styled building, unharmed and setting off no alarms, a chain of six stressed out assholes about to do some dumb shit.

 

“Ready, Care-Bare?” Lup whispers to her husband, squeezing his hand gently from where she’s been holding it.

 

“Uh… Yup. Yeah. Fuck. Why not.  _ Shit _ .” Barry looks halfway to a mental breakdown, like the only thing keeping him from vibrating straight out of his skin and into his lich form is Lup’s hand in his, determined and strong. “Uh, briefing, the Bell is a necromancy Relic with the powers to-”

 

“Barold,” Taako whispers, “All I want to do is kick some non-reaper lich ass right now and get back with my kid and Sir Bonesalot. I don’t give a shit about death, I want to kill Fantasy Team Rocket. Briefings are old school, homie, here at Taako Town we just turn into a fucking T-Rex and eat that shit.”

 

Without any further ado, Taako skirts past his sister and brother-in-law, charges up a spell in the hand not holding the KrEbStAr and slams it against the wall, which collapses in a pile of dust, letting sunlight stream into the warded room, so small, yet containing so much pain.

 

“Sup, bitches!” Taako crows, spinning his focus around his middle finger as he flips off the frozen, skeletal forms of Edward and Lydia, wrapped in black robes, which are honestly a horrible fashion choice in Taako’s opinion. “Which one of you motherfuckers is up for dying first?”

 

-

 

“FUCK!”

 

Ah yes, there’s the Lup they all know and love. Pacing, as much as she is capable of such, around the dusty cavern she was killed in the decade previous, flames popping up periodically as she stares murderously at her own umbrella, looking three second away from turning it into tinder. She always did have so much rage, without her brother, without Barry, before her own decade of silence followed by a year of heart-pounding helplessness, stuck in her focus without a way to get out as her friends, her  _ family _ were almost killed, or in one case, actually killed, eleven times over.

 

“This is my worst Fantasy Etsy project to date! Fantasy Jesus Christ! How do we get that little idiot out of there?” Lup keeps ranting, skeletal hand skimming over the runework on the bottom of the staff that made it an even better focus from the inside, the colorful fabric dancing holographically under the touch of her magic.

 

“Unfortunately,” Kravitz explains, “We can’t. Well. We technically can, but we shouldn’t. It’s what Angus wants, and it’s what he’s planned. My Queen knows how much smarter he is than the rest of us combined, to interfere with something he’s put any measure of thought into is worse than hubris- it’s blatant stupidity. Believe me, when he was 10 he actively hunted down more necromantic dens than I could. He’s now an adult with enough doctoral degrees to rival Barry. He’ll be fine.”

 

Lup freezes, form glitching out, going unstable, red robe leaking over the ground like oil from a barrel, just waiting for the match to ignite. Her holographic skin disappears completely as she turns to face them, leaving a bleached white skull hovering in the center of blood red robes, spilling onto stone like the start of so many rituals he has appeared to interrupt, on the order of the Raven Queen.

 

“Where is my  _ fucking  _ husband.”

 

Davenport sucks in a quick breath before cutting a hand between the reaper and the lich, face to face and two seconds away from throwing down. Wind bursts between the two of them, sharp and thick, disrupting Lup’s anger and stabilizing her temporarily. “If memory serves,” Davenport bites out, glaring at her, “Then he’s about to take a job from the son of the asshole that killed you because he’s possessing a clone of his old body and is a bit of an amnesiac. He’s fine, just dumb.”

 

Lup’s form settles, energy drawing up from the floor and returning the vibrancy to her cloak, all of the sharp edges no longer sludge, dripping, crackling with the edge of explosive flame. “He’s always been dumb. Sexy, smart, and capable, but he’s so gods damned dumb.” Lup smiles, skin flickering back into existence, content with the knowledge that they’re not faking it. If they were faking it, they probably wouldn’t have opened with dumb.

 

“So, we’re going to have to stealth it out at the bottom of a pit for a while. Angus gave us another assignment before he turned himself into a sentient umbrella, so we’re going to have to try to fix that. Also possibly kill Gundren Rockseeker. He deserves it.” Davenport smiles, that cold, humorless thing he would give as he watched the Hunger consume mindlessly, the one expression of his that could be translated to the intenseness of certain factors to indicate how homicidal he was feeling.

 

Davenport had been fond of Brian, before Lucretia showed him the Bulwark Staff and gave him a hunger within that could not be sated. The bastard also blew up an entire town. None of it is particularly favorable towards Gundren Rockseeker.

 

“So, my brother is coming,” Lup starts in, “and we’re gonna sit at the bottom of a pit and just wait to kill a dude and do whatever the kid made you guys do?”

 

Kravitz and Davenport look at each other, nod, then turn to Lup. “Yup,” Kravitz says, “Don’t argue with Angus McDonald. There is no point in doing so.”

 

The Umbra Staff is returned back to Lup’s motionless, skeletal hand, pressed in gently. Kravitz presses his lips to the tip of his fingers, then briefly taps his fingers against the handle of the umbrella, smiling as he stands and heads out the way they came.

 

Angus McDonald is left alone, in a golden shelved library, staring up as he watches his family leave, from the selective viewpoint of the Umbra Staff. His runes were meticulous, allowing him consciousness and better decor than Lup had. The books took an extra few sigils, but they are worth it.

 

For now he waits, and sits, and reads, and  _ thinks _ .

 

And when Angus McDonald thinks?

 

Well, may the gods help whatever he is thinking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dabs soulfully*
> 
> Comments feed me.

**Author's Note:**

> Sup. I'm not dead, I'm just very tired, we'll see where this thing goes.
> 
> The McElroys personally entered my house to deliver me some emotions so I embodied the 'life give you lemons' vine and made this personal hellscape of mine I like to call Fixing What Aint Broke.
> 
> Here's my unorganized purgatory of a tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/zenzaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> See ya, space cowboy.


End file.
